Friday, 2 July 2010

A woman is in bed. Next to her on the bedside table is a bottle of eyedrops and some antibiotics. She is unwell, but still, she has lovely hair. The telephone rings – the woman’s friend is calling from abroad.

Woman: (croakily) Hello?
Friend: Ugh. You sound dead.
W: I nearly am.
F: What have you been up to?
W: Sleeping, mostly. Whining quite a bit. Trying to remember to take far too many tablets and not scratch my eyes out. Ooh, but I have watched two Michael Cera movies this week. His face has been a beacon in my fevered state.
F: He’s from Toronto.
W: Don’t you love it when awesome people are Canadian? I’m pretty sure I’m developing a small crush on him. I have spent a disproportionately large part of today wondering whether he actually tastes all ‘tangy and delicious’ from Orange Tic-Tacs like Juno says he does in ‘Juno’.
W & F: (together) Mmmm.

There is a brief pause in the conversation.

F: So, how is the state of the country?
W: What, because of the Tories?
F: No, dumbass. Because of the football.
W: Oh, that. Yeah, well, we’re all basically doomed. But that’s nothing new. There is nothing as English as disappointment.
F: I’m just sad that Steven Gerrard’s not going to be on the TV any more.
W: Ew, are you kidding?
F: Shut up! He’s cute!
W: Or NOT! Anyway, it’s ‘Steven GER-rard’ not ‘Steven Ger-RARD.’
F: Whatever. You guys also say ‘addy-das’ and ‘jaggew-ar’ when you really mean Adidas and Jaguar.
W: Hey! I’m only trying to help. If you met him and said his name wrong, it would certainly be damaging to your campaign to convince him to initiate a clandestine affair.
F: True.
W: You can have him. I’m quite happy with Frank Lampard and David James. Especially without shirts.
F: Frank Lampard? Whatever. Anyway, he has a cowlick at the back of his head, like me.
W: You're a loser. Don’t judge Frank for his cowlick. I’m friends with you despite yours, aren't I?

A man (with a beard) enters.

W: Lindsay fancies Steven Gerrard.
F: There’s nothing wrong with him!

The man's facial expression turns to a mixture of alarm and disgust. (it is barely noticeable behind his fucking giant beard.)

W: Jason just made a face.
F: Fuck off with his face.
W: She wants to be seen as his WAG on his arm.
M: I wouldn’t want to be seen with him dead on my arm after Sunday’s performance.
F: True. But he’s still cute, though. And Michael Cera, obviously.
W & F: (together) Mmmm.

There is a brief pause in the conversation.

F: How old is he, anyway?
W: I dunno, probably like 25 or 26.
F: Well that’s okay, we’re 33 and 34 so he’s not that young.
W: Wait. I will Google him from my iPhone.
F: Good idea. I am going to Google Steven Gerrard.
W: Fuck! He’s like... 22. He was born in 1988.
F: Damn. No Tic-Tacs for you.